Sherlock Advent Calendar 2012
by Atlin Merrick
Summary: When the boys of 221B are naughty, it's always nice...
1. 1-6 December 2012

**Sherlock Advent Calendar 2012**

**At Attention: 1 December 2012**

John hasn't said one word for the last six hours.

He's not even in the same room as Mr. Sherlock "Can't You See I'm Thinking" Holmes, so if the man dares mourn the disturbing pressure of John's _thoughts,_ or deigns to complain John's _breathing_ funny, well Mr. Annoying can just stuff it up his prodigious arse.

Thus speaks John "_Fine_ I'll Just Leave You Damn Well Alone" Watson, who then takes up silent residence on the sofa, bowing over a book he's been meaning to read for _years _but has been prevented from reading that entire time by Mr. There's A Case On John!

_Anyway._

It begins with a bid for attention, because Sherlock never wants attention more than when _he's not getting it._

So Sherlock keeps doing things. Turning. Looking. Fiddling with a microscope slide and saying "Ouch!" or "Ridiculous!" or even, once, "Damn!" but each ejaculatory word—you'll pardon the phrasing—elicits not so much as one tilt of a flaxen head.

John allows this to continue through eighteen further baritone ejaculations—pardon—and seventeen dark head swivels and finally he gives in, pretending _he_ needs attention.

Sherlock's up and out of his chair like a shot.

Then, after an _actual_ ejaculation, John even gives Mr. I Knew You Wanted Attention, I _Deduced_ It a few lively things to look at under his microscope.

Ahem. Pardon.

_There are images to go with all of these entries. See them at **tinyurl dot com/atlin-advent12.**_

_Verity Burns sent the image that goes with this and said, "I look at this and immediately think Atlin," and then asked, "Don't you wonder what's drawing his attention?" Of course I do. You do not _not_ wonder what Verity Burns wonders. _

…

**Size Matters: 2 December 2012**

Some mysteries should never be solved.

Why Lestrade complains about his weight but eats all those pasties. How Mrs. Hudson picks so many winning scratch cards. And why Sherlock is still struck by a simple, senseless thing: The difference in his and John's size.

He noticed it most recently in the momentary exchange of a mobile. John's hand was ridiculously…tiny. Smaller than the phone and that phone easily fit in Sherlock's palm.

It was later that night, in bed, that he murmured, "I could wrap you in my arms and you'd vanish."

Sherlock's disinclined to hyperbole with The Work, it damages the veracity of the data. But when he's in bed with John and he's trying to give voice to sex and love and all the messy things he still doesn't quite _get,_ well he's as inclined to lyricism as the next man.

Yet is something an exaggeration if it's true? Because as soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock gathered John's hands into his own and they…disappeared.

Which gave rise to another mystery: Why did this make Sherlock go breathless?

At times like this he'll look at John and see eyes gone bright, he'll hear fast breathing, and if he reaches out, he can feel a heart beating fast.

That's when Sherlock will do what he always does, what _they_ always do. He'll accept that some mysteries? Well, they should never be solved.

_Thank you to BlackMorgan for this prompt of hands. And thank you Ben and Martin for being so absurdly, gloriously physically _different_ from one another._

…

**Christmas Card: 3 December 2012**

It was so completely the opposite of what everyone expected that _no one_ won their bet.

And there had been bets. Everyone had seen a href=" post/13701394951/porn-advent-calendar-december-2-2011-never-say" target="_blank"last year's Christmas card_/a_. Everyone knew there would be a card this year. Mostly because John had told them. Repeatedly. Lestrade, Dimmock, Superior, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Merrick—if John had even a glancing acquaintance with you he told you to expect a card. "Wait until you see them."

That was in late November and the bets were laid mere hours after and ranged from, "Twenty pounds Sherlock makes a face like someone put a dead hamster in his tea," ("Oh but he'd _like_ that,") to "I bet a hundred quid the card shows up down at the pub before nightfall, on the dart board, with Mr. Sourpuss the bull's eye."

What everyone got instead was a card by way of Esquire by way of GQ by way of _WTF?_

Still, the wit with the hundred quid should have collected because she was at least half right. John and Sherlock's 2012 Christmas card—actually, dozens of them—did indeed show up at the Met local before nightfall. Tacked up all over the mirrors in the women's loo. And more than a few in the men's.

It would be indelicate to mention the things written on them.

_The gorgeous image that prompted this came from AreYouWearingAnyPants, thank you! And thank you OhSherl who originally put the two images together._

…

**Leave No Man Behind: 4 December 2012**

"He was a beauty, wasn't he?"

Sherlock squinted and brought the photograph close to his face. "Your _grandfather?"_

John threw himself on to the bed, tried to snatch the photo from his lover's hand. He might be down with the flu, but Sherlock was not enfeebled; he twisted away smartly…and fell on the floor.

"Sherlock!" John peered over the bed's edge.

Sherlock was still squinting at the photograph, apparently unaware of his new location.

"Uh yeah, that's grandad. He was—"

Sherlock wiped his nose on his dressing gown. John tut-tutted, rained a handful of tissues down. Sherlock shoved one off his eye and wiped his nose again. On his sleeve.

"—a gunner during the second world war. He'd just stripped off to rescue a fellow airman from the bay. Their plane was under fire and they had to get out fast, so there just wasn't time for him to…" John gestured at the photo.

"Get…wet." Sherlock held the photo at arm's length this time. "…dressed…I meant…mmmm…"

From his southern locale, Sherlock slow-blinked his gaze north. John met his eye and made a pleased sound. He can always tell when his sweetheart's on the mend; he gets…inquisitive.

The good doctor rolled away and out of Sherlock's line of sight.

After waiting a respectable half minute Sherlock clambered onto the bed and right on to his little love, now belly down and bare on the duvet.

Sherlock then gently placed the photo beside John's hip and proceeded to very closely, very carefully search for Watson family resemblances.

_This prompt from Black Morgan and you must go see the image, which is called "Rescue at Rabaul: PBY Blister Gunner, 1944," by Horace Bristol. The story I've read is pretty much as John describes: This man stripped off to save another man down in water, and because they needed to get away fast, the gunner simply went back to work. Beautifully._

…

**Do You Wish…?: 5 December 2012**

"Do you ever wish I was different?"

"No."

"You're not listening John."

"I am. Only my hands are busy cleaning the kitchen. My ears are doing nothing, just like you. So I heard. And I answered."

"What did I ask?"

John finished the last dish, grinned. Sherlock often annoyed people by answering questions with as few words as possible. He hated having it done back.

"You asked me if I wished you weren't you. If I fantasize about a taller man, shorter, a blond man, a soldier or doctor. You want to know if I ever wish you quieter, louder, duller, more content with less. And I told you. No. I don't."

John wiped his hands off on tatty jeans, stood behind his seated husband. As he'd expected, Sherlock's blog was open, as were several windows containing fan mail, and one, on top of the rest, with art. Like so many drawings, this one changed Sherlock utterly.

"I was wrong actually." John gestured at the picture, then leaned over and bumped his head against Sherlock's. "I do wish you were different. Right now I wish you were more like him."

Sherlock turned slowly, nosed at John's hair. "Speckled? Spotted? "

John sighed softly and bared his neck. "Horny."

_An image of Faun!lock from RustyGrass33 inspired this, while the final, so-obvious pun came from the brilliant Verity Burns._

…

**Eye Sex: 6 December 2012**

John does it, so he has no right to complain when Sherlock does, but complain he will, vociferously.

"Stop looking like that or I'll do rude things to you."

Sitting in a shadowy corner of Mrs. Hudson's lounge, Sherlock uncrossed his linen-clad legs _widely,_ then recrossed them the other way. Somehow it was pornographic. It was _absolutely_ pornographic, and referenced in heart-pounding detail the five distinct things Sherlock had promised to do to John after this party.

"That's the idea, John."

"Not _that_ kind of rude," hissed the good doctor, turning on his heels. He had no god damn intention of getting erect at his landlady's Christmas festivities.

Well good luck there, Captain.

Because for the entire evening Sherlock held court in that bloody chair. For the entire evening he followed John with his blasted, pretty eyes. And for the entire evening he opened his _mouth,_ or his _legs,_ or his—damn it it didn't matter!

What mattered was that before evening's end John had sweated clean through his Christmas jumper. He'd knocked back a stomach-churning amount of eggnog. He'd excused them early. And then, exactly sixteen seconds after they returned home, he was on hands and knees, trousers at his ankles, pants barely tugged down, and they were finally, finally, _finally_ doing rude things.

Very festive, very _rude _rude things.

_First Stormlock requested "serious eye fucking," then Jennifer Germain kindly sent a fine image and called it dirty thoughts. These two things inspired my own screencap and a slight manipulation, then this wee fic. Thank you Stormlock and Jennifer!_


	2. 7-12 December 2012

**Let it Snow: 7 December 2012**

Maybe when he's fat he'll like snow.

Sherlock's head canon—we all have one—includes a pudgy old age. He thinks maybe then, when properly insulated, he'll enjoy the cold, but right now the only member of his small family to relish the winter is John.

So Sherlock puts up with the snow.

Actually he does more than that. He starts fights. As they walk through the park after a storm, Sherlock crafts one perfectly formed snowball and he holds it in his hand. He lets John see this snowball. And then he waits.

As expected, John swears at him. John makes threats. John walks backward and says, "I don't want to. Not this time, we'll be late."

John lies.

It takes no deduction to see the brightness in his eyes. Or that he's fairly dancing as they walk, keeping an eye on Sherlock's snow-freighted hand.

Sometimes they'll make it all the way through Regent's and be climbing Primrose Hill and sometimes Sherlock's even forgotten what he's holding and then—

_ *Pow!*_

A small, icy explosion at the nape of a neck—always there—and the fight begins.

Sherlock hates the snow because it's often dirty and it makes him cold. But for a few precious minutes every year the snow means giggling, chasing, trip-falling, and teeth-chattering kisses.

And for awhile, just a little while, Sherlock loves the snow.

_Thank you to Crazycatt71 for your snowy prompt (though I eventually used an image of pretty Primrose Hill, which is not very far from 221B._

…

**Ringmaster: 8 December 2012**

It was one of those glittery, acrobatic cirques, the kind without performing animals but brimming with bendy men and women in barely-there satin and sequins, and presided over by a ringmaster, as spangled as the rest, resplendent in a red frock coat, silk waistcoat, top hat, bowtie, and boots.

And despite the three dozen lithe, half-naked acrobats at a sort of parade-rest behind him, every eye beneath that canvas tent was on that striding ringmaster. Because here's a newsflash for you: you don't have to be tall to be big, and you don't have to be loud or dramatic or Sherlock damn Holmes to draw every eye in a room.

You just have to be John Hamish Watson, swaggering beneath a bright spot, chin high, white-gloved hands fisted around gold-rimmed lapels. You just have to _act _like cock of the walk to hold the gaze of the breathless eight year old, her eighty year old grandmother and your possibly-growling-definitely-glaring-at-the-leering-trapeze-artist-should-be-catching-the-criminal-right-about-now husband, too.

It was fine. In the end the Baker Street boys nabbed the blackmailer (the clown), discovered her cache of incriminating photos (eye widening), and incidentally earned themselves free entry to the circus for the rest of their lives (unused).

Sherlock cared about none of that. After the case was done—and you'll rarely hear this from that man's mouth, but the damn thing couldn't finish _fast_ enough—all he cared about was getting home and getting everything, the waistcoat, the tie, the breeches, _off _John and then the boots? _The boots?_ Oh the boots damn well went right back _on _John.

And then so did Sherlock.

_Thank AreYouWearingAnyPants for the ringmaster prompt and Verity Buuuuurns, for the focus on the footwear!_

…

**This is Not About Food: 9 December 2012**

"Put it in my mouth."

"No."

Sherlock opened his mouth and gestured, "I need it. In here. Put it _in."_

"You're not normal."

"You eating that brown brick—"

"—fruit cake—"

"—from your American friend is not normal. This—"

"—is just not on. You can't just blow in here Sherlock, and—"

"—solve a _case?_ I think you'll find I—"

"—told you, I'm not just going to put—"

Fine. _Fine._

When pressed for time there are things Sherlock can do to get John on board with his plans. Usually all it takes is running ahead; John almost always follows. Oh sure, he'll swear, make threats and, once, throw things—"Ouch!" "I told you to slow down you idiot, I've got a rock in my shoe!" "You just _threw_ a rock!"—but if Sherlock just _does,_ John will also often _do._

So Sherlock did. He fell to hands and knees, tilted back his head and moaned with such raw sexual need that—

—John did, too.

_Ten, twenty, thirty…_Sherlock counted and moaned, moaned and counted and by the time he got to forty-two, John shoved his cock between that pesky, plush cupid's bow.

_Finally._

Happily getting what he wanted, Sherlock now took his time. John didn't. The sight of his lover fully dressed and on all fours did wonders for John's libido. He fired off within a minute.

Rising, grinning, wiping at the corners of his mouth, Sherlock murmured, "Excellent," and whirled away to run tests on precisely how acidic a man's mouth became after swallowing ejaculate.

Sated, giggling, and once again nibbling some remarkably good fruit cake, John realized he was wrong.

Apparently Sherlock _could_ just blow in and, well…blow.

_BlackMorgan inspired this, as did Aithine with her lovely screencaps, then I included a blowjob and Sherlock's cupid's bow at the request of Michaël. *Whew*_

…

**I Have a Proposal: 10 December 2012**

"He proposed to me beneath the London Eye."

This is the story they tell.

Neither can remember who started the fib (it was John), but from the first the agreement between them that this was their public truth was unspoken and unanimous.

Those they love know the true trials of John and Sherlock's marriage proposals (yes, there were two), but the good doctor's always thought this part of their personal life was no business of the press. So, when asked in interviews over the years, the answer became, "Sherlock proposed to me there after a case, near Christmas."

The problem is, Sherlock's a good but lazy liar. He respects few people enough to maintain his deceptions, and so when, a few years into their fiction, he twice got caught out, Sherlock figured he'd best figure out a way to lodge the lie in his mind palace for good.

Which was how John found himself standing near the Eye after a light two a.m. snowfall, Sherlock on one knee, asking in a dramatic baritone if they might spend their lives together.

John held out his hand so that Sherlock could put _on_ it the ring he'd twenty seconds ago taken _off_ it, then by way of answer he hugged Sherlock's head against his belly. After a few moments he bent over and kissed snow-dusted dark hair. "We're not alone," he whispered.

Sherlock looked down to the prettily-lighted brick path and at the human skull beside his knee. "Well it _was _her idea."

_Thank you Kathy Hostetler for the pretty image prompt of the London Eye. It's an ungainly, gorgeous thing, isn't it? Also, more Rory soon! (Who's Rory? The skull on the mantle, as "All That Glitters," and "Skullduggery," will show you._

…

**'Twas the Fortnight Before Christmas: 11 December 2012**

"A bow John?"

John smiled fetchingly. "I thought it would be obvious, even to you, what it signifies."

Sherlock raised a heavy brow. "Even to me."

On his belly on the bed John looked up at his pacing lover. "You're a distractible man. On more than one occasion I've had to use the equivalent of semaphore flags to point out my erections."

Sherlock continued pacing the foot of the bed, eyeing John's latest…semaphore flag.

"I tried telling you I was ready for this."

Sherlock stopped pacing, raised the other ponderous brow. "Oh _really."_

John wriggled prettily. "I would have thought 'I'm freshly showered and squeaky clean, let's get this show on the road,' then grabbing my own bottom would have tipped you off. But it didn't. Three times it didn't."

Sherlock started pacing again and waved his hands. Kind of semaphore flag-like. "There was a case John! Time was of the essence! All that cheese was at risk!"

John stilled. "Well now the case is over and here I am. And an early present just for you."

Sherlock stopped pacing again. He looked long and hard at the big red bow. He was maybe already breathing funny. "You're…sure?"

The naked, squeaky clean, I-wasn't-quite-ready-for-you-to-do-_that_-to-me-_there_-but-now-I-am-let's-get-freaky doctor humped the mattress in emphatic reply.

Sherlock had every stitch of clothing off within eighteen seconds. John counted.

And then Sherlock was there, right between lovely thighs and he was breathlessly removing a silky red bow from right over _that_ spot on John's bum.

Then Sherlock bent low, snaked out a long and squirming tongue…and opened his Christmas present.

_Advent rimming, go me! Batik96 prompted "decorations or wrapping paper" and then sent me a pretty bow. I'm either going to apologize for where my mind instantly went or prance around proud. Please visualize whichever you require. *Cough* Thank you._

…

**Panic Button: 12 December 2012**

"Give it to me Sherlock."

"No."

"I said give it to me."

"And I said no. Cold turkey, we agreed."

John stopped pacing the sitting room, went so still so quickly Sherlock couldn't help but think of grenades.

"Sherlock mother fucking Holmes, give that laptop to me right now or I will tackle you to the floor and I will _take_ it."

Sherlock MF Holmes pushed his computer out of reach, rose to his full height, and looked down at a stiff-backed army doctor doing the same. "I'd like to see you try."

John's chin dipped. His shoulders rose. He widened his stance—

—and Sherlock dropped his dressing gown, under which he wore nothing but tiny, turquoise, button-up knickers.

On the outside, John did not so much as flinch.

On the _inside_ John—Not Coping With Internet Cold Turkey _At All_ Well—Watson was a veritable jamboree of ticks and tremors, a fiery fiesta of _oh dear god yes._

See, here's the thing: When Sherlock was quitting cigarettes they learned that oral sublimation worked a treat. This meant French kisses in lifts; filthy sweet nothings whispered while queuing; and a great deal of neck, finger, tongue, belly, cock, and jumper suck-suck-_sucking._

So, in an effort to return the favour—and help John kick an insidious, trolling-the-internet-at-all-hours habit while they were interminably between cases—Sherlock hid John's laptop, spent all day bodily guarding his own…and decided to give John's hands something to do.

At last the good doctor looked down. His typing fingers twitched.

Button, buttons, such lovely _buttons,_ straining over Sherlock's bulge. A doctorly hand reached round, groped. Buttons, buttons, such lovely _buttons, _valiantly holding on over the ripe acreage at back.

All of John's fingers twitched. "Hnnng," he whispered, "hnnnnnng."

And then John Watson fell to his knees and he sub-sub-_sublimated._

Twice.

_Prompted myself this time. After having no access to my laptop for four days—and responding much like John—I thought a wee Advent fic and a photo of some pretty turquoise knickers might properly express my great and abiding pain._

_Speaking of pretty photos, you can find these wee fics and their images at: tinyurl dot com slash atlin-advent12  
_


	3. 13-18 December 2012

**Fire and Ice: 13 December 2012**

"You're thinking of the summer violin."

Their socked feet propped close to fireplace flame, bodies spoon-smooshed together for warmth in Sherlock's chair, John sighed sleepy and said, "How'd you know?"

Dozy and daydreaming too, Sherlock dipped his chin to John's shoulder, placed four long fingers each against a doctorly rib, then danced them up and down until John squirmed. "You were fingering."

It was a day last summer the good doctor found her, a sculptor who carved chilly fancies: Frosty giraffes with delicate necks, kittens with icicle whiskers, wintry teapots that decanted cold tea.

Right then and there he'd commissioned her to make something for him and then, on a sweltering Thames-side afternoon a few days later, John gifted his husband with a violin made of ice.

For long moments all Sherlock did was gust hot breath over that cold, cold thing. And then, tucking the frosty fiddle beneath his chin, Sherlock paraded down the river's shore, sawing at invisible strings with an invisible bow, humming loud, John trailing close behind.

Over sunbathers' legs they'd marched, past the grey pier, and then around a bend where they found a small sweet spot to stretch out together.

There Sherlock laid the cold violin on John's chest, gathered his husband in his arms, and he hummed soft and pretended to play, until John's chilled body was full of goosebumps, until his nipples were tighter than a horsehair bow, until they both laughed.

Months later, socked feet propped close to a winter fire, John nestled deeper into warm arms, murmured, "I was, wasn't I?"

And while Sherlock continued to softly finger the frets of John's ribs, the good doctor hummed a summer song composed on a violin of ice, and after a very little while the dozy musician and his drowsy instrument, they fell quite soundly asleep.

_This is for Xgraciela, who I promised fluff a long, long time ago. The prompt of a real violin made of ice came from the wonderful Ka95Mee, while this image of an unreal ice violin is from Daniel Hoenes and his wonderful art. The fireside feels? Well those're from me._

…

**Come Under Fire: 14 December 2012**

"What?"

John wriggled away from the hearth. "I said I'm hot."

"I thought you said _amphibian."_

"How did you—ouch!" Sherlock's belt bit into John's bound wrists as he continued squirming from the inferno in the fireplace. "—get amphibian from I'm hot?"

Sherlock waved a noodly arm in the air. "I don't know! You told me to pay attention!" Sherlock huffed, gestured between John's bare legs. "Do you still want me to?"

John huffed back, opened his thighs wider. "If you'd be so—oh!"

Things proceeded quite nicely for awhile and then… "What?"

Busy thrusting down on fingers thrusting up, John grunted. "I said…that's…lovely."

"I thought you said _vinegarroon."_

John clamped his legs closed, effectively trapping Sherlock's hand. "Bugger."

"Is that one of the words? Why are there so many _words?"_

John wasn't sure why he'd set up one, two…_four _safewords for one bit of festive fireside bondage. All he knew was they'd been to a party, got tipsy on eggnog, and then at home there was a fire and a_ why not?_ and a _maybe we'll get it right this time._

It all started fine and then John got too hot and hot sounded like _amphibian_, and then it was lovely and lovely sounded like _vinegarroon_, and then Sherlock's belt was cutting off John's circulation and… _"Ascomycete."_

Sherlock slumped in relief. "Thank god."

An hour later the fire was embers, Sherlock's belt was across the room, and one of John's hands was still fettered.

Between Sherlock's bare thighs.

_I took about seven thousand words to tell lovely CorvusRedCrow why my John and Sherlock aren't into bondage so I couldn't possibly write a…and then I wrote a fic kind of explaining why my John and Sherlock aren't into bondage. Thank you my dear! And thank you always to Aithine for the wonderful screencaps. Also, two thumbs up to the random word generator!_

…

**Eye-Opening Experience: 15 December 2012**

"What was that?"

Cross-legged on the bedroom floor John shoved a small box behind his back. "Nothing."

Sherlock's gaze darted around the room. In a panic John's did, too. He had, however, left no Christmas gifts visible.

Squinting, "Where is it?"

Warily, "What?"

Prowling, "The music, where's the music?"

Frowning, "Oh. That was an hour ago."

Frowning back, "Play it again."

"Play wh—"

_"It_ John, _it."_

John shrugged, tugged out his smartphone, selected an album.

"Not that one."

"That's the only album I was pla—"

"No, not that _song._ The other one."

This went on awhile—"no, no, the other one!"—until John got to Hendrix's "Are You Experienced?"

The effect on Sherlock was instantaneous. _"Hnnnng."_

John's brows shot up. Other parts of John may have shot up as well. Sherlock rarely made spontaneous sexual sounds. More rarely still did he clap a hand over his cock.

"Sherlock."

_"Hnnnng."_

"It's the opening isn't it? It is. I love the scratchy, scrapey guitar sound, too."

Sherlock unbuckled, unbuttoned, unzipped, stepped out of, stepped over to, got _on._

"Wait, wait, let me…"

John shoved writhing detective off his lap, shoved trousers and pants down, shoved the Christmas present he'd been wrapping out from under his arse, started the song again.

Then John got busy with the opening he _really_ loved.

_Thank you to the wondrous Staceuo for this prompt. And it's not like you asked, but Sherlock's reaction to the first ten seconds of that song? Mine too. No clue why. Also _thanks to a certain someone for 'opening' my eyes to the ending. _Verity Burns: No innuendo left unspotted._

…

**Out of Her Skull: 16 December 2012**

_If you even think about doing that to me I will have you sectioned._

Sherlock beamed. "They're real!"

_I don't care if they're made of unicorn tears and kitten whiskers, get those monstrous things away from me._

Sherlock leaned against the mantle and shoved the nested skulls in Rory's bony face. "They're actual human skulls!"

Rory glared actual dead human fury at Sherlock but the big git did not notice.

"Wellcome gave them to us—well, to John, she has a big crush on John—after we located the museum's cache of stolen 19th century sex toys. Remember? I told you about the platinum nipple clamps and the penile—"

_I am going to harm _your_ penile Sherlock Holmes, if. you. do. not. get. those. things. out. of. my. face._

Sherlock hugged the skulls to his chest and looked around the sitting room wide-eyed. "John should put them…he should put them…" Sherlock swung back toward the mantle, so bedecked with fake Christmas finery there was barely room for the one (furious) skull on it, much less three (no matter how nested).

_If you dare, if you absolutely dare, I will leave you. I will find a way to locomote and I will leave you._

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue when a small hand reached around and plucked the grim little filigree fancies out of his clutches.

"I believe those are mine," John said, winking at Rory. "Now, do you think there's room on the mantle for all those nice wedding photos Janette sent us?"

Sherlock wheeled around and hissed, "If you dare, John, if you absolutely dare, I will—"

The good doctor couldn't hear the rest over the sound of his own mad giggling.

_This prompt came from my hubby, who sent me a link to Joshua Harker's site. I'm delighted but Rory's not best pleased. (Rory? She's the skull on the mantle at 221B, of course.)_

…

**In Over His Head: 17 December 2012**

"Stop laughing."

"I can't."

"I'll do terrible things to your tea, John. _Undetectable things."_

Sherlock shifted. There was another hackle-raising crack.

John stopped laughing. "Don't move you idiot!"

Sherlock shifted again—he couldn't help it, thin branches are not sufficient support for broad arses—and again there was the teeth-clenching sound of wood carefully rending.

"You're going to fall out of that tree Sherlock Holmes, and break into ten pieces. And I'm only going to collect eight of them and guess which ones I'll leave behind!"

No one, including John, had any clue what he meant, but Sherlock stopped his damn shifting.

"Greg said the fire brigade'll be along shortly, can you just stop wriggling long enough to be rescued?"

As soon as the word was out of his mouth John regretted it. Even from twenty-five feet beneath that wiggling behind John could see Sherlock's thunderous expression.

_"Rescue_ is not something I require _John."_ He did not much swear, yet Sherlock gave the first and last word a decidedly blasphemous flair.

"No, of course not," John said, beginning to climb.

"What're you doing John? _Stop doing what you're doing."_

John weighs at least a stone less than Sherlock, so he didn't stop climbing that delicate damn tree until he was on the branch next to the branch on which his one true love carefully perched. The only reason Sherlock was _in_ the bloody tree was because John had spied pretty clumps of seasonal green between winter-bare branches.

From his tenuous perch the good doctor glanced overhead meaningfully, then leaned round the tree's trunk. Sherlock also eyed the wild mistletoe above his head, made harrumphing noises, and met John half way.

The rescue crew had to yell up at them three times before they heard.

_Irisqod kindly sent the succinct prompt of mistletoe. Have you ever noticed how high up in a tree the damn stuff grows?_

…

**The Naked Chef: 18 December 2012**

"It'll burn."

Sherlock peered over the side of the hotly bubbling pot. "No, it's fine."

John shook his head, quietly mesmerized. "Not…that."

_Oh._

Look, it was not Sherlock's aim to be sexual. At _that _time.

It _is _often Sherlock's aim to be sexual around John, whose responses vary so much in intensity, propriety, volume, speed, and sometimes sensibility that the good detective, several years on into this life-long love affair, is still intrigued by the reactions he can elicit.

Currently, however, he was merely saving his suit from the vagaries of cheese.

The fromager's alibi hung on the timing of this recipe and once in the throes of cookery Sherlock had been loathe to leave the hob. So, rather than begin again, he'd simply stripped at the stove, wrapped a tea towel around his waist, and continued cooking.

Enter John.

Literally.

Sherlock will tell you he had no idea what was going on until it was going on, and that's true, while also harkening right on back to the sexual unpredictability of John Watsons.

Be that as it may, what 'went on' happened quickly, and involved John deciding that now would be as good a time as any for _him_ to try this new-fangled rimming thing because frankly would you _get a load of the crack of that arse._

Sherlock will tell you he did not squeak, squeal, yelp or whatever John says he did when that inquisitive tongue made its virgin foray into Sherlock's no-longer virgin territory, but he did precisely those things.

Sherlock also did a few other things after a bit, including burn the cheese, shove his pert arse back against a frankly _brilliant_ tongue, and come copiously into a tea towel.

What happened after they put out the hob fire, disabled the fire alarm, and yelled reassurances to Mrs. Hudson may have involved their kitchen floor and an unusual cooking implement, but that's private and strictly between the two of them.

_The image prompt, and a request for "more Christmas rimming" came from Black Morgan. I am not one to say no to the Pirate, so I did not. And now, apparently, each of the boys' first experiences with rimming sort of revolved around cheese. Head canons are strange things…_


	4. 19-24 December 2012

**Who…: 19 December 2012**

"…shot JR."

"Oh god _that _one!"

Greg and John shut up the moment Sherlock walked into Lestrade's office.

Every one of Sherlock's detecting hairs—which is all of them—prickled. "There's been a shooting."

Greg outright laughed. John knew better so glared at Greg, who stopped laughing.

"Where? Who?"

John stood, scooped up a case file, "Actually no, but there's been a break-in by Waterloo station, the—"

The prickling detective did what he does, he stepped right up to John, so close his popped collar tickled his lover's cheekbones. He breathed low and deep, "Don't lie to me John."

You can feel guilty about strange things. You can also mishear things strangely. Right now John felt guilty that 1) he'd been talking about 70s American telly with Lestrade 2) he was now unaccountably lying about it 3) he was pretty sure Sherlock hadn't just said _lie with me John,_ but even so John was now thinking about lying with Sherlock, in the entirely biblical sense, and that was confusing and, "What now?"

Sherlock pressed closer, sniffed John's neck, "I can smell it when you lie you know."

Look, here's the problem. Sometimes John's pretty sure he's got god damn _cycles,_ okay? Times when he's extra-special receptive to _this._ To Sherlock breathing on him, touching him, to the fucking _looming._ So instead of getting _on _with things, John started getting an _erect_ thing.

Lestrade to the rescue. "Stand down, Sherlock."

The DI rose, took the case file from John. "The shooter's long since found. It was obvious. Boring. Now, about the break-in—"

Sherlock closed the Waterloo case within an hour. And he did eventually learn who shot JR, but that's only because later that night he got _on_ John, then got _in _John, then he told John he'd refrain from, um, _shooting_ unless the good doctor explained.

John explained. Sherlock fired. Case closed.

_Was discussing 70s telly with the singular Kelley KA and that veered into the TV show "Man From Atlantis" which left-turned into "Dallas," and a certain Texas villain, and she said "Advent porn!" and here you go._

…

**Foul Mouthed: 20 December 2012**

"Open wide my precious pet."

Sherlock Holmes lifted his limpid gaze heavenward and proceeded to act like hell. He did not open wide.

"Come along my beautiful boy, I need you to open for me."

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed up drum tight.

A patient doctor cupped a fine, firm jaw. "Open your peevish mouth my vexing darling before I decide this oral medication would best be administered rectally."

Sherlock took another, deeper breath and tugged the tatters of his dignity _and _ruined shirt tightly to him. "Apologize," he murmured through clenched teeth.

John lifted his gaze briefly heavenward. Counted to five. Then he politely unleashed hell.

"You, my much-cherished dunderhead, didn't have to jump into the Thames for that sodding stolen stuffed rabbit. You also, my gorgeous clot, swim like a drowning man. And finally, my addle-headed harpy, I _saw_ you swallow what must have been a gallon of almost-raw river sewage. So, yes, while I am indeed sorry my 'There it goes!' inspired you to dive feet-first into a cold river right beside an over-flowing rubbish barge, I must say that if you do not open these ripe and succulent lips and let me get this minty-fresh emetic into your impertinent, doctor-vexing body, I will happily shove it where the English sun does not shine. Do you understand me, my only, my dearest, my mother-fucking angel?"

Sherlock will tell you he opened his mouth and let John put a nasty medicine _that causes vomiting_ inside him because it was almost Christmas, quite nearly 2013, and Sherlock had resolved to be an even more fantastic husband than the year previous. He will also admit that his mouth tasted funny and maybe he felt a bit queasy.

But mostly, if he is honest, Sherlock consented to swallow that vile concoction because Sherlock loves it, adores it, maybe even feels a-flutter when his sweary sweetheart, his tiny tyrant, his petite and pushy potentate calls him endearing names.

It did not hurt that in exchange for Sherlock opening wide now, John returned the favour later.

_The gifted 221_Hound waxed lyrical about liking it when John calls Sherlock endearing pet names. What better time to swear!endear, and discuss vomiting, than near Christmas?_

…

**Through the Looking Glass: 21 December 2012**

It was the first time he saw their naked bodies in the light.

John still remembers it, he'll remember it his entire life, that first morning after their first night together.

It was because of the mirror.

John woke before Sherlock and he did absolutely nothing at all, but quite possibly Sherlock really can hear certain sorts of thoughts because surely the gleeful, horny, damned _happy_ clamour of John's are what opened those sloe eyes not quite five minutes later.

It was only seconds after that that they laced their bodies together and one thing lead to another thing, then both of those things lustily ejaculated. After a drowsy nap Sherlock rose, ghosted himself quiet to the loo and it was on his way back to bed that a just-risen John caught him up in a sleepy embrace.

As natural as breathing Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's neck and it was then the good doctor caught sight of them in the mirror, bodies washed pale by morning light.

John looked and he looked, mesmerized by two…no, three fine things. The first was the natural ease with which Sherlock draped that long frame over his. The second? The grace in his own hands as they slid soft down Sherlock's back, settling gently on lush curves.

And finally John was captivated by _that,_ the bounty he so tenderly touched, and it didn't take long, not long at all—why possibly it was mere seconds—before grace turned into grabby, and sleepy turned into sexy, and doctorly fingers that are nowhere near as long as detectivey ones nevertheless proved their penetrating capability and if John felt shy about watching in the looking glass as he greedily pushed those fingers inside Sherlock's welcoming body, well that part John doesn't remember at all.

_I'm beginning to think BlackMorgan's taken a tour of the squishy matter inside my skull because she knows exactly what I want to see and this, this, this image here? I want to see it now, five minutes from now, five hours, five days, weeks, months…pretty much always. Don't you?_

…

**This Is Exactly What You Think It Is: 22 December 2012**

"It would help if your arse was _on_ the thing, John."

"Will this be the fourth or the fifth time I tell you to shut up?"

They both stopped fidgeting long enough for Sherlock to make an uncouth sound. "It'll be the eighth. I must say, this drug's doing absolute _wonders _for your ever-sparkling—"

"If you continue talking I'll smite you. Also why did you turn off the lights, _I can't find your god damn penis."_

They both groped in the dark awhile. Eventually one of them found penis.

"Here it is! Good god Sherlock your hard as…"

John was too loaded on ephanolin to marshal further words. Sherlock was also doped to the eyeballs—the drug went far toward soothing the overwhelming itch of their overwhelming allergy to Christmas holly, but its side-effect was to inflame another overwhelming 'itch' entirely—but at least Sherlock had words. "…as the hard, sleek barrels of a Zeiss axioplan fluorescence trinocular microscope?"

John made an unmannerly sound. "I've seen that thing, it's full of terrible sharp angles." John giggled and groped. "Unlike _this_ beauty."

Sherlock would have made the sort of uncivil sounds that go well with rude eye-rolling but John finally got his arse _on_ the thing and so the eye-rolling was of a completely different nature.

Overhead lighting suddenly blazed. "Well gentlemen, I think I've found an older drug that should have fewer si—oh."

The response to the monograph the doctor eventually wrote on ephanolin's chief side effect was, she will tell you with modest pride, quite…_overwhelming._

_I made the drug up. But not the microscope. I have _some _respect. Also this was prompted by a perfectly innocent remark into which Marlboro Blanc read all manner of unmannerly innuendo. Thank god._

…

**Caring Is Not a Disadvantage: 23 December 2012**

"When? When did you take this?"

"During that red-headed case. When you were in hospital."

It hadn't been much, just a bit of pistol whipping from the embezzler when John peered around an alley wall. But the good doctor had been knocked out cold so they'd kept him in hospital a few hours for observation.

"He looks so…"

Mrs. Hudson stood next to John, gazed at the photo. "He didn't know I was there."

John's eyebrows rose. "You're joking?"

She'd watched Sherlock at John's bedside that night for nearly ten minutes. "I have another photo I'll give you later. He's kissing your hand."

John slumped. He may have kicked the wrapping paper at his feet. This did not assuage his guilt at all.

"I shouted at him today."

"I know."

"A lot."

"I know."

"A _lot_ a lot."

"You told him to stop."

"I didn't mean…I just don't want _pandering…_I…"

John sat down hard, held the framed photo against his knees tightly, as if fisting his hands in Sherlock's infernal coat collar. "'Don't wait for me if it slows you down. Don't worry about me. Just do what you do.' That's all I meant. That's all."

Mrs. Hudson sat on the arm of her very nice upholstered chair. "I know. But what he does now is care, John. Let him."

The good doctor pressed his landlady's hand briefly, then again held tight to her early gift to him.

"Merry Christmas, John."

_The wonderfully gifted AnnaCarrota prompted me with a beautiful image of Ben, then emo happened._

…

**Boot Up: 24 December 2012**

"I'm amazed I don't feel resentful."

"I wouldn't blame you if you did."

"No, I don't suppose you would. You're a giving sort of man, John."

"I know."

"It's not fair though."

"I know."

"I mean the imbalance is what's not fair."

"I know, Greg."

"He's slim and tall and smart, does he have to look like that, too?"

"Apparently."

"I mean he doesn't even seem awkward. I've had my pretty moments but I'd look like a hamster at a cat convention right now if that was me."

"So I suppose we can add natural ease to your list of grievances?"

"They're not grievances really, they're just…it's just a list. A list of unfair things."

"I've got one, too. A list."

"I suppose you would."

They watched Sherlock awhile. The fashion photographer didn't even have to tell him how to move.

"So what's on yours?"

"Well, it's not really a list of unfair things."

They watched some more. Greg was sure these photos would corner their criminal. The detective inspector then detective inspected. "I'm going to regret asking what's on this list, aren't I?"

"I expect you will."

"It's going to be naughty, not nice?"

"Pretty much."

"Well go on then."

John gestured. "That look right there, through his lashes. My heart's racing."

Greg nodded.

"The undone cuff. Blood's totally gone south."

The DI could see how that might happen.

"But mostly it's the wide open boots. Greg, you could probably bite me right now and I pretty much wouldn't notice I'm so over-aroused."

The DI briefly entertained biting but refrained. He did, however, dig out the keys to his panda. "The windows are tinted. I'm sure you remember. Just keep quiet this time, okay?"

John pocketed the keys. "That's probably not going to happen."

Greg nodded. "I know."

_Catalyst's wonderful Sherlock-in-Heels Tumblr keeps Sherlock's shod feet always on my mind._


	5. 25-31 December 2012

…**Is In the Eating: 25 December 2012**

"You can say it."

No, he couldn't.

"Go ahead."

No, John really could not say it.

"It was awful."

All right, John could say it. "Sherlock, the taste in my mouth rivals that time we ate the worms and possibly even the slugs."

"John, we didn't eat the slu—" Sherlock cut himself off, aware that this was not exactly John's point. "I was trying to use up the cheese." Sherlock resisted, resisted…didn't resist: "Like you _asked."_

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the thing on it, John murmured but did not mean: "I understand."

"It _looks_ like the one in the photo if you—" Sherlock stopped pacing, cut himself off, again aware that this was not the point.

No, the point was: Sherlock had made a Christmas pudding. A sweet, dense holiday treat of dried fruit and brandy. But he'd lacked a necessary ingredient—butter—yet had copious amounts of another—rotting soft cheese left from a recent case—so in the making of he made…substitutions.

About these critical amendments he failed to tell John, who'd been so delighted at Sherlock's cookery effort that he simply tucked in.

A doctor's constitution is strong, so when John says he nearly threw up as the first mouthful clawed its way down his suddenly-rebelling oesophagus, he is completely not kidding.

Sherlock stopped pacing again. "I have an idea."

John was sure Sherlock did. Sherlock is often full of ideas. Some are better than others.

"About how to get the bad taste out of your mouth."

John was sure he knew where this was going. He remained quiet and let it go.

It went a very short distance. As far as the kitchen table, actually, upon which a bare Sherlock reclined while John carefully created and then consumed a really inspired recipe using twelve flavoured lubes and quite a bit of brandy.

And that's pretty much how the boys of 221B spent Christmas.

_I'm not sure if I should apologize to the amazing Chocolamousse for what I did with her prompt, but just in case…I'm sorry. It's just that, as you may have noticed, there's been a great deal of _cheese _this Advent and frankly it needed to be taken care of._

…

**Christmas Giving…In: 26 December 2012**

"Well at least it's not actually _Christmas."_

Slumped beside John on the sofa, staring at their tree, Sherlock nodded.

"At least we avoided _that_ debacle _this_ year. No gift of the Magi-like screw-ups for us on _Christmas _day."

Sherlock nodded again, noticed one of the lights on their tree was dimmer than the rest.

"We can probably get most of our money back."

He wouldn't touch it though. The light. He'd already broke two strands trying to 'fix' them.

"Then maybe we can use it to get tattoos saying, 'We're only _mostly_ idiots.'"

Slumped even lower on the sofa than his slumpy love, John turned, looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked down at John. As one they turned away giggling.

"I don't even know why I thought you'd want to _see_ those weird bones!" In southern Italy lay the recently deceased corpse of an old woman whose entire skeleton, upon autopsy, was revealed to be blue. "I should have asked before booking flights."

Sherlock acknowledged that this was so. The good detective went on to admit that secretly buying pricy tickets to the South of France on a Club Med get-away—"I thought it was special travel for _doctors,_ John"—might not have been among his brightest ideas.

The dim bulb on the Christmas tree winked cheerily at them. As if making an inside joke.

"Well, now what?"

It was Boxing Day. The men of 221B had spent a frankly startling amount of money on travel neither wanted to make. The sun was out, crime was low, and they had nothing much to do.

Which was how, an hour later, John and Sherlock found themselves roaming hand-in-hand in the south of London, looking at old bones washed onto the Thames' rocky shore.

Back at the flat a Christmas tree light cheerily winked, and winked, and winked.

_Danglingthpider provided the image prompt by way of the inimitable Black Morgan. Do you see what I see in one of the ornaments?_

…

**Give Us Some Sugar: 27 December 2012**

"You're sure?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Sherlock, I need you to be sure."

Sherlock nodded again, louder.

"She actually _said _it wasn't meant for cocktails?"

Sherlock could think of no way to be more affirmative, so he continued to affirm with the whole head bobbing, "Yes, yes," thing.

John picked the silver disc up off the coffee table. He did this carefully, as if it were ticking. "Sherlock…she knows."

Sherlock's brain briefly flashed bright with images of the stain under the sofa, the stabbed—uh, tattered curtain in the toilet, the spleens he'd hidden at the bottom of her bins. He didn't think John was talking about any of these, but he checked, just in case. _"What_ does she know?"

As if someone might overhear, John leaned close, "That we…" There was some busyness John did with his tongue. "…you know."

Kindly attend.

John and Sherlock have put an exceptionally wide array of questionable things in one another's bums. They've murmured into each other's mouths words both pornographic and profane. That John was suddenly feeling so _dainty_ he wouldn't say…

The bright light of understanding blazed over Sherlock's head. _"Rimming!_ Oh, I see. That's really quite clever. Mrs. Hudson gave us flavoured cocktail sugar and suggested we use it for sexua—"

John made a loud shushing noise and threw a panicked look at the sitting room floor. "She'll hear you!"

Sherlock followed John's gaze and interestingly enough they both heard their landlady moving around downstairs. After a few moments Sherlock quietly stood. Silently he unbuttoned, unbuckled, unzipped. Soundlessly he let his clothes fall to the floor.

He then bent over, removed the lid from the disc in John's hand. Inside, the rimming sugar was a rich, lusty red. Dragging his finger through it, Sherlock smiled, then…_licked_ it off.

"Yes John," he whispered, "I suppose she will."

Then Sherlock turned and went to his hands and knees.

_The lovely DarthHelloKitty sent the image prompt of rimming sugar and I about had a coronary. Also, if you think this is the my Advent of Rimming (TM, patent pending, offer void where prohibited) then I think you're right._

…

**Christmas Stockings: 28 December 2012**

Christmas comes just once a year, the boys of 221B do not.

"Please, _please _just stay still and let me finish."

Sherlock did not still and he did not stay. Instead he paced and squirmed his way around the bedroom.

Despite his entreaty, Sherlock's movement didn't slow John at all. "My god love, _look _at you."

Finally Sherlock stopped and Sherlock looked, using an antique three-way mirror they'd 'liberated' from a rubbish tip during that case where—_never mind._ The point is, Sherlock was looking.

And John, John was jerking, but only _himself,_ alas, because Sherlock hadn't been able to stay still long enough for the good doctor to lay hands on him, but John's hand was plenty busy now flying over a persistent part of his own anatomy, and maybe he was giggle-muttering, "you've got red on you," because yes they'd watched _Shaun of the Dead_ again and _thank god_ Sherlock was finally standing there _posing_ and John was sure they were finally on the same panting-and-pantyhose page, both so aroused by the sight of Sherlock in John's late gift that absolutely no one was getting out of this bedroom without—

"Oh…ooooh…_god."_

—an orgasm.

Watching via the mirror as John came was just _stupidly_ sexy, that's what Sherlock would tell you if he talked like John, but he doesn't, so Sherlock did what Sherlock _does _do and that was clamour onto his good doctor and _make a production._

Dressed in those fine red fancies Sherlock rubbed and he rutted, he moaned and he groaned. He panted and heaved, he sighed and he keened, and by the time he actually finished John was flipping him onto his back, and by the time _John_ finished again, Sherlock was straddling his head, and by the time they were _both _done those stockings were in tatters, Mrs. Hudson was on her third brandy, and finally it was a merry late Christmas to all, and to all a _very_ good night.

_Walkamongstthestars prompted with "you've got red on you," while the Xdress website inadvertently provided a suitable image (which I tweaked) and apparently this was the result._

…

**Worth His Weight: 29 December 2012**

It's not 'case closed' in an hour _every_ time.

As a matter of fact, John and Sherlock can have as many as half a dozen cases going because, while they may know who done it, they still need court-worthy proof that they did, indeed, _do_ it.

That's why for the last six months they've been working on the Wembley arsons, dealing with an heir's disappearance, and gathering clues in a counterfeiting case. John's also been following leads on embezzlement and plagiarism cases, while Sherlock lifts weights, and gathers evidence on who bilked a coffee magnate for billions.

Weight.

Rewind.

_What?_

Bold as brass, money launderers are using a high-end gym to turn bad money good, but to get incontrovertible proof, someone needed to go undercover as a health club habitué. Obviously.

With a shrug, a hair cut, and a change in mannerisms, Sherlock became that someone. Obviously.

And that's when—no, it was about four months later—anyway, that's when pretty much everyone learned Sherlock has one of those physiques that puts on quite a bit of muscle quite quickly (he would, wouldn't he?). Soon acquaintances were looking at him muttering, "Something's different about you."

John could have told them what that something was, but he didn't. Instead John stripped Sherlock to his skin some nights and just…looked.

He loved what he saw. Yet he also missed what was gone. This confused him, and he could not have told you why. Fortunately this was a case Sherlock _could _close quickly.

"To me you're beautiful, whether in a tuxedo or trainers. Perfect when you're peevish or pleased. You're not just one thing, John, and I can love all of the things you are. Right now—" Sherlock gestured at his own beautiful body. "—this is the me you love. It doesn't mean you love who I was any less."

It was 2:21 am and Sherlock finally put a brace of case files down on their desk, reached out. "Now love me. This me. Here."

Stretching across the clutter, sleek muscles shifting, Sherlock grinned and whispered, "Don't…_wait."_

_The prompt of a beautiful boy came from Charlene, and while it's not Ben, I sure do like to imagine it is._

…

**Picture Perfect: 30 December 2012**

"What's so funny guys?"

Photos. People usually give them photos. Because what better gift can you give John Watson and Sherlock Holmes than each other?

"'Cause I really don't get it."

So people give them pretty pictures: Candids of the two canoodling at a crime scene. Holiday snaps of them bussing beneath mistletoe. Sweet photos of one man's gentle gaze on the other.

"Nothing, it's…this is lovely Greg."

They always graciously accept these gifts, which was why Lestrade found it confusing that after opening his present John started laughing so hard he got wheezy, and Sherlock seemed to be chewing his lips _to stop himself from talking._

Greg'll tell you this right now: You may _think_ you want a thing—a puppy, a promotion, a dick up the arse in a moderately-public place—but once you _get_ that thing you often realize, _No, do not want; really, really do not want, _and right now Greg didn't want a silently snickering Sherlock, and he wasn't crazy about a laugh-wheezy Watson either.

"Look, I'm sorry guys but…"

Well no, Greg wasn't sorry, so he never did finish the sentence, which was good because John finally controlled himself and Sherlock started talking and both at last thanked Lestrade for the simple little painting he'd had done based off a photo Mrs. Hudson loaned him. Eventually, after more thanks, a nice drink, and some belated holiday cheer, everyone went away happy.

A few hours later two of them came happy, too.

Because looking at that picture John and Sherlock well-remembered what they'd been whispering as Superior took her sneaky crime scene snap. They both recalled in detail what had happened beneath the confines of Sherlock's cave-like coat, where they did it again almost immediately, and why it was totally worth the limp, the rash, and the three hour hiccups after.

_Some certain people wanted certain rude things here, but when prompted my brain seized up and gave me moderately cracky instead. I don't even know anymore._

…

**I Will If You Will: 31 December 2012**

"I'm not the little one. Red doesn't suit my skin tone _at all."_

"I'm older than you. There's no way you're the taller one."

"That _is_ why I'm the taller one, John. Because I'm _taller."_

"I wasn't considered short until I turned thir—that's not the point. If those two boys are you and me you'd be the little one in the red and I'd be the big one in the black, so just shut it already."

_"If_ that were the case, and I assure you it's not, I would've certainly figured out how to _skate._ I'd no doubt have—"

The rest of Sherlock's wisdom was lost as he went face-first onto the ice.

Aside from bruised pride he was—

"—_fine,_ I said_._ Unhand me. Why you insist on this senselessly dangerous pastime every year I can't imagine, but—"

This time Sherlock went over backward, and this time he just lay there on the ice frowning up at his husband, who scowled down at him.

Damn it, they'd resolved to bicker less this year. They'd also resolved to eat better, be nicer, and make it to the _bed, _instead of sofa, more often.

So far they were 0 for fucking 0.

As they glowered at one another two tiny boys trip-skated slowly toward them, unaware that the pair of grumpy grown men ahead had been busy imagining themselves little, busy wondering what they'd have been together had they met so many years ago.

As the children passed, the taller one in black trousers wobbled, so the little one in red clutched his friend's hand tighter. Neither fell.

And they skated by.

John, in his red-knit hat, leaned down and reached for Sherlock. Sherlock, in his black coat, reached up and said softly, "Hold on."

"I will if you will," John whispered back.

Sherlock nodded.

And _that _resolution they kept. That year, every year.

Forever.

_And thus ends my version of Advent, with a prompt from the indefatigable Crazycatt71. Happy new year! May you hold tight to the hand of someone _you _love._


End file.
